


That Time I Kissed a Soldier

by GrrraceUnderfire



Category: Hogan's Heroes (TV 1965)
Genre: Boys Kissing, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-19
Updated: 2020-01-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:40:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 2,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22320442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GrrraceUnderfire/pseuds/GrrraceUnderfire
Summary: Colonel Hogan may have been a little more amorous than he liked to let on whenever he had Newkirk dress as a woman for a mission. He was just good at hiding his intentions behind his rank and his sense of humor.A retelling of "That's No Lady, That's My Corporal" from Colonel Hogan's POV. Based on the episode “That’s No Lady, That’s My Spy.”
Relationships: Robert Hogan/Peter Newkirk
Comments: 5
Kudos: 15





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [That's No Lady, That's My Corporal](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21391615) by [GrrraceUnderfire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GrrraceUnderfire/pseuds/GrrraceUnderfire). 



I didn’t really set out to kiss one of my men. Strictly speaking, he wasn’t even a man at the time it happened.

I like women, OK? No one would doubt that for a minute. Ask Helga. Hilda.

Ask Tiger. She can tell you for sure. 

Even Marya could attest. And I don’t even like her, but that smell of cinnamon and roses does me in every time. 

Hell, ask Newkirk. He saw me, um, processing Greta at the end of a mission. More precisely, at that moment, she was processing me. 

Newkirk. Ha. He’s challenging, that guy. He hates it when I order him to impersonate a female—to “frock up,” as he puts it.

But dammit, he’s good as a female. He’s the only one of the guys who can carry it off. 

Sometimes too well.


	2. Chapter 2

He was in my office, with LeBeau assisting him and Carter just watching. You could tell Carter was fascinated. I don’t think he’d ever seen a man dress as a woman before he went into the Army. 

And yes, I realize there’s something odd about that statement. The Army. Rifles, barracks, mess tins, transvestites. One of these things just doesn’t belong.

Newkirk had, of course, been around cross dressing before. It is, as he’s told me, in the grand tradition of British theater. He’s been on stage. He’s played male and female roles. Even with that stutter, somehow, he managed to be an actor. And I’ve seen it, how he just disappears into a role and the stutter vanishes.

He becomes someone else. And in our line of work, that makes him very valuable.

LeBeau, being a man of the world and a Parisian, is surprised by nothing. When Newkirk's in a dress and extends a hand in his direction, LeBeau will kiss it as if it is the daintiest hand he’s ever seen. Never mind the wisps of hair on those wrists and knuckles.

Newkirk does take good care of his hands—they are his tools, after all. So he keeps them soft and supple. But they are broad, manly hands by any standard.

Not that I’ve been studying them. I just notice details.

Like how he looks at me when he’s in a dress.

I don’t mean when he’s _getting_ dressed. Because the way he looks at everyone then is pure Newkirk. He’s rolling his eyes. Even if he keeps his mouth shut—which, to be fair, he generally does—you can see he’s irritated at being the one who has to put on a dress and heels.

But once he is dressed—once he has submerged—this other side of him surfaces.

He’s softer. More vulnerable. Delicate, almost.

Until he whacks you with his handbag. Then Newkirk’s back.


	3. Chapter 3

But there’s that moment in between, when he is purely feminine. It’s quite a transformation. He moves differently. He smiles fetchingly. He flirts effortlessly.

He wasn't at that moment of transformation yet. I knew he was nervous about going out. He said as much. “A chap could get killed.” He’s right. If he’s caught, it could mean his life.

Sitting alone with me, he showed me that vulnerability. His eyes were wide and glistening and truthful. He suddenly looked young and frightened.

And I was so moved by his vulnerability that my heart swelled and yeah, OK, my loins tingled. I wanted to tell him not to be scared. He would be all right. Right then and there, I wanted to wrap my arms around him, to comfort him.

But I didn’t. I couldn’t. We’re men. We’re soldiers, even if he is in a dress. So no. No. No. No. I don’t shy away from touch, but there’s a limit. And I couldn't trust myself at that moment to stay on the right side of the line.

So I did what I do. I made a joke. I spun a tale. I teased him, just like I used to tease girls when I was 13 or 14, before I knew how to talk to them.

I told him he was beautiful and I couldn’t wait to be alone with him.

It wasn’t a lie.


	4. Chapter 4

If you’ve ever wondered what “flabbergasted” means, Newkirk’s face was the dictionary definition. He was in complete shock at my overtures. He didn’t expect it, and he didn’t know to respond.

I thought he would get it and start to laugh. Instead, he was completely unnerved and he started backing away from me.

It was a somewhat more intense reaction than I’d anticipated, but there was no turning back. I was teasing him hard. It was the only thing keeping me calm.

I had him up against the wall, and he was absolutely convinced of my amorous intentions. And scared witless.

Now it was safe. I started to laugh.

He quickly realized he’d been had. I’d gotten the upper hand and put him in his place. 

That’s when the tables turned. Because he wasn’t used to being fooled. And he wasn’t going to take it lying down. Even if, at some level, I think he might have enjoyed finding out what it was like to lie down with me. 


	5. Chapter 5

You have to understand before I go any further that I don't really _want_ Newkirk. I don't. Not that way. I'm a man. Men don't lust after other men. Not normal men like me.

But sometimes it's just fun to horse around. To see what kind of a reaction I get. Usually I'm one for teasing the women, to see how excited I can get them, to see how far they'll let me go. Well, there are no women around camp most of the time, and I am used to female company every time I want it. So sometimes I'll tease the guys to get my jollies. Mostly Newkirk and sometimes LeBeau. LeBeau because he's French and doesn't care, and Newkirk because he's so damned cocky that it's fun to watch him squirm.

It usually starts with bantering, and it's all in good fun. A little playful fighting, a way of getting our energy out. If I jab, he'll counter-punch. He'll play devil's advocate, just arguing for the hell of it or to get in the spotlight. He likes to argue with me, because he knows nobody else would dare. And I really like that about him.

But there's a thin line between banter and flirting, especially when it comes to Newkirk and me. I can tell when the bantering ends and the flirting begins, because I can literally feel it you-know-where. Suddenly there's a tingle, and I realize I'm having too much fun, so I get a little more aggressive with him so I can settle down.

He feels it too sometimes. I know how to get him excited. I've seen it, and it's a powerful feeling to know I can rouse his spirits. And he knows I know, which is even better.

The thing is, he's sly. Even when I get under his skin, the wheels are always turning. So this time, when I thought I had him cornered, he surprised me. 

When I broke it to him that I wasn't lusting after him, he didn't snarl. He didn't snap. He didn't even laugh.

Nope. He looked like he was going to cry. And at that moment, he had me by the short and curlies.


	6. Chapter 6

Because I didn't know what I'd do if I had hurt him enough to make him cry. I'm in the US Army Air Force, for Christ's sake. Crying isn't protocol.

He looked hurt and he started stuttering worse than usual and he had a tear in his eye.

And his lip trembled. He mentioned his mother, how he looked like her.

My stomach did flip-flops. Aw, Jesus. I was just teasing him, trying to bring him down a peg or two. Trying to show him that despite his best effort he was never going to be beautiful in women's clothes. Because just like me, he is a man. A real man. 

Except he wasn't. No. Standing there dressed in women's clothing, with his head down, his eyes glistening and his lip quivering, he seemed small and hurt and defenseless. Like a young woman, or a child, even.

So I apologized. And I said he was handsome. And I was sure his mother was beautiful. And I spoke to him gently, kindly.

And he asked me for a kiss.

It was the only thing he wanted, he said. It would make him feel better. It was just a little thing, he said. His mummy always kissed him.

I felt like a fool. We were heading out on a mission, and I'd shaken up my key man to the point he was using words like "mummy." He looked crushed. 

If he needed just a little kiss to feel better, who was I to argue? No one would see, and this was Newkirk. He wasn't bad to look at, and he was already dressed as a girl. So it wouldn't take much imagination to give him what he asked for. 

So I did it. I kissed him. Nothing fancy, just a sweet, simple kiss on his lips. His soft, plump, willing lips.

He was still looking shy when I finished. OK, good. That wasn't bad. He seemed relaxed.

Then he looked up with the most ferocious expression in his eye and told me he had me right where he wanted me.

That was when I thought, oh, fuck. This kiss might have been a mistake.


	7. Chapter 7

His eyes were flashing and he was all fury. “You’d better not tell anyone what you pulled over on me,” he roared.

Holy Toledo, I thought. Maybe I went a little too far this time. Here was my corporal, lecturing me that I’d gotten away with tricking him for the last time and I’d better not try that again. I’d be sorry.

He was so angry. He was flushing and blushing and snapping and snarling.

He was all passion.

He was so exciting to me.

Those blazing green eyes.Those hot pink cheeks. Those dark brows. Those long, wet lashes.

My temperature was climbing. There was only one thing I could do.

I taunted him. Then I grabbed him around the shoulders and I leaned in. I kissed him—not softly and sweetly like before.

Hard. Very, very hard. I clutched him to me and I kissed.

He didn’t fight. He just let me in. He relaxed as I held him and kissed harder. My hands went everywhere and he didn’t resist. He pressed into me.

Finally, he pulled back. Breathless. Confused. Oddly relaxed.

”All right, you won,” he said. “But you’ve gone crackers.”

Yes. Yes, I have. And I feel damn good about it. I patted him on the backside and sent him on his mission.


	8. Chapter 8

It was a day later when he limped back into the tunnel. The tea party had been a smash. He’d gotten away as planned and delivered the drugs to Danzig.

He’d abandoned his dress at Danzig’s place and returned as an old man with a thick physique and a full beard.

I’d been looking forward to his return, vaguely hoping to pick up where we left off.

Something in the way he grinned at me told me he knew that. And knew that seeing him as an old codger would cool anyone’s libido.

Well, anyone but the old ladies he met, apparently. He made it abundantly clear that they found him attractive.

Bully for them. To each his own.

I’d seen Newkirk as a woman, a boy, and an old man. Two out of three ain’t bad, until all that’s left is number 3.

It was going to take a while before I felt like kissing Newkirk again. And something told me that was exactly what he had in mind.

It’s OK, though. I’m a man. I like women. Nobody would doubt that. Not Hilda or Helga. Not Tiger or Marya. Not Greta or any of the other underground operatives. Ask any of them.

Just do me a favor. Don't ask Peter Newkirk.


End file.
